Unlock the Unspoken
by Beloved-the-Fool
Summary: Expanded scene from Sacrifice. Yeah, that's all I've got for a description. Um, the story is better than the description, I promise.


**This one-shot is an expanded scene from ****_Sacrifice_****. It is actually a couple of scenes from that episode stitched together and then expanded, and it's all based on nothing more than a tiny, little sound I happened to notice today while re-watching it for the zillionth time. I always noticed ****_something weird_**** about their interaction in this specific scene – in one specific section of the specific scene, to be, er, specific – but until I heard the sound, it never really occurred to me ****_why_**** it was weird. Once I sussed it, I squeed. That's right: squeed. Maybe you all noticed it before, and I'm just slow on the uptake. Quite possible. Probable, even. Your mileage may vary. Whatever. I still wrote a story from it, so I hope someone gets some enjoyment out of it. I did, anyway! ****_I got mine!_**** :p**

**Standard disclaimer: LtM isn't mine. The charaters aren't mine. Tim Roth isn't mine. And that is a damn shame, that is.**

**Off you go, then...**

* * *

"Next week's fine."

Her posture is tense as she turns distractedly, searching for something with which to write. She takes a seat at the edge of her chair, cradles the phone across her body with her opposite hand as though she's physically trying to hide the conversation from view even though there's no one in the room to read her. She's alone yet she still feels ashamed. How telling is that?

The next question flusters her a little, both because she's unprepared for it (she's unprepared for all of this, really) and because she just doesn't have a good answer yet.

"Okay, uh, no, I s- I still don't…have a permanent address. Everything's just gonna go into storage. Alright. Thank you."

She ends the call with the movers and turns toward her desk. She feels panicky over having nowhere to go and over not really having thought this through and not already having concrete plans in place. She isn't comfortable in flux. But she has no time to dwell on that now because they're in the middle of a huge case where two bombs have already gone off in DC with more anticipated, and Emily Lightman has just walked into her office.

Big picture now. Plenty of time to fall apart later.

* * *

In the silver framed, black-and-white photo they are smiling. They were happy then, side by side. She can't even remember how long it's been since the space between them was that small. Seems a lifetime ago. When the tears wash the photo's clarity from her vision, she turns away to face the window, as if putting her back to the picture frame will somehow help her begin to put all of this behind her. After awhile, the tears ebb. She thinks maybe she can sleep at the office for a few nights (even a week or two) while she gets her head together. If she's careful, she can probably go several days before anyone catches on.

Before _he_ catches on.

And as if just _thinking_ of him rattles his cage somehow, in he pops. Doesn't even knock first, so she hasn't time to cover. She turns toward the opening door automatically, and he sees it. All of it.

"Hey."

"Hey," she responds softly, casting her eyes down. She hates herself for it instantly, but she hates even more the pity she is sure she will see in his eyes.

"How you doing? You alright?" he asks gently. His arms are loose at his sides, and his feet shift as he lets the door close behind him. He is giving them privacy but, at the same time, he's signaling to her something a bit uncharacteristic: a respect for hers, if she needs it. He isn't advancing on her, hasn't invaded her space. Indeed, he hasn't stepped any further into the room than was necessary to allow for the door to close; he is awaiting a cue from her. He is minding the line – willing to ignore what he sees unless she wants to share with him.

And there's more.

When she dares to look back at his face, his eyes, she's taken aback by what she sees there. It isn't visible for more than a few seconds; anyone else might've missed it. But she didn't; she wasn't meant to. He meant for her to see it. For those fleeting seconds, he dropped the mask and let her see his sincerity. He isn't judging her, isn't pitying her. His care for her is authentic.

She looks aside briefly because facing that much truth from him is a little bit scary just now. But right then and there, she decides to trust him. She turns her eyes back to meet his. "I'm okay." Her eyes tell him another story entirely, one he understands because he has lived it.

It's all the invitation he needs. He is at her side in an instant, and her traitorous eyes are already burning with fresh, unshed tears again as he reaches to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"You wanna talk about it, luv?" he queries as he strokes a small, calming path from shoulder to upper back.

Gillian closes her eyes against the painful weight of his tenderness and looks away. She's beginning to feel like she can't breathe. Inhaling deeply through her mouth, she stands. He lets his hand fall from her shoulder and steps back, gives her space. But he stays close; he isn't going anywhere. His message is clear. She doesn't have to do this alone if she doesn't want to. It's her call, though; and to show her, he stuffs his hands into his pockets and waits.

"Alec and I are separating," she blurts out before she can lose her nerve. She has to glance away before adding in a voice less sure, "I- I'm moving out." She's nodding, confirming her own decision. To herself or to him?

Maybe both.

He nods, too. "I'm sorry," he tells her. There's no pity in his voice or on his face, but there's also no surprise, she can't help but note. So…he saw this coming. Of course, he did. He would. No pity, no surprise. But there is _something_ there… Empathy. _Probably why he saw it coming_, she thinks, nodding. He gets it.

And it's in that moment that she knows she's going to open up to him. Just a little. She doesn't even care if there's wisdom in it or not. If there's danger in it or not. He's here, and she needs him. She moves to sit on the edge of her desk, facing him. He tilts his head the way he does when he's getting a read on someone. She honestly doesn't even think he realizes when he's doing it most of the time. It's like breathing for him, an involuntary reflex. She isn't offended or upset by it this time, not even when he steps in closer to her. She invites the proximity. She is drawing strength from his mere presence. She wonders if he knows that, knows how much she is depending on him in this moment even if she would never in a million years say so in so many words?

"You know, I can't even picture it?" she asks with a shake of her head. "Being on my own." She's afraid. She knows he can see it, so she doesn't bother trying to hide it from him.

He surprises her again by addressing her fear indirectly, non-confrontationally. "It's been a long time," he offers benignly. He raises his eyebrows, imbuing his simple comment with more meaning than mere words should be able to carry then smiles faintly and gives her an unreadable expression. With a quick, soothing caress of his hand down the length of her arm, he seems to abruptly change the subject.

"I'm gonna go to the hospital," he tells her as he stuffs his hands back into his pockets.

"To see Torres," she guesses. It isn't a question. She's saddened that he won't be staying with her, but she knows he's needed elsewhere.

"Yeah," he confirms.

And, really, that's okay. She should probably be alone right now, and Ria shouldn't. And anyway, Cal has done enough here for one night. He has listened. Supported. Been open. It was all brief but no less genuine in its brevity. He has given her some renewed strength. He has tethered her, helped her find her center. She can do this.

She looks directly in his eyes so he will know that what she says next is the truth, so he won't feel guilty about leaving her like this. And because, really, it's for the best. "I'll be alright," she says and places her right palm flat over his heart, stroking his chest quickly, lovingly before letting her hand fall away. "You should go. You should go." She says it twice for emphasis and in case there was any doubt. On his part or hers?

Maybe both.

His eyes search hers for a moment before he gives an affirmative grunt. He searches her eyes again, and she's starting to wonder what it is he's looking for when he finally breaks eye contact. His lips are pressed tight together, and he's looking down. His hands are still in his pockets, and his brow is drawn slightly as if he's concentrating. His feet begin to shuffle. She looks down, and she hears a faint, metallic jingle. In one fluid motion, his right hand leaves his pocket and presses her hand as he walks past her mumbling a half-formed, "Here," then exits.

She keeps her eyes downcast and bites her bottom lip, but she waits until the echo of his footfalls has died before she dares allow herself to glance at the tiny objects he pressed into her hand as he left. The tiny things that rest in her palm so small but feeling now so very weighty.

The spare keys to his home, heavy with unspoken invitation.

* * *

_**Author's addendum: It's worth noting that my notice of the tiny sound was made whilst watching on my iPad and using headphones. That likely accounts for hearing the tiny sound that I'd previously missed on my many, many (many...) viewings via telly. Just thought you should know, in the interest of full disclosure. That tidbit was for the scientist in each of you who wish to conduct your own at-home experiments. No extra charge. ;)**_


End file.
